Forgotten Monument
by Madame Rose
Summary: Shoppers would skirt around it, giving the mourning twin a wide berth, but they couldn’t help feel the accusation that George’s haunted eyes shot at them: “Why not you?” DH Spoilers Oneshot


**Author's NOte**: Yeah. I know. Another George-angst fanfic. I can't help it! I miss Freddie so much. :( Plus, I did a really stupid thing called 'reread Deathy Hallows' this weekend, so now I'm all depressed again. Ah, well, at least I can write fanfiction again.

**Disclaimer**: Fred wouldn't be dead if I owned Harry Potter. JKR is the murderer here, not me. Too bad she's an absolute genius and I love her.

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_Forgotten Monument  
_A George and Angelina Fanfic  
January 20, 2008

The war was over, the walls of Hogwarts cleaned, and the families of the dead 'compensated' for their losses. The Ministry of Magic erected so many monuments that Wizards across Britain couldn't go ten miles without seeing one, and people said that those who died received a fitting tribute, and that they would never be forgotten.

But as time droned on, the dead were slowly forgotten. Names that once were spoken daily were forgotten about, and families that swore they would never be whole again began to stitch themselves back together. The haunted look in the eyes of those who'd actually been at Hogwarts the day it happened regained some life, and laughter wasn't as rare as it used to be. People said that the world was reaching a new, brighter era, and that it was better than it used to be. And so the monuments, once frequented by hoards of people carrying flowers, were slowly forgotten.

There was one monument, however, that was visited daily. It was small, a tribute of someone who wasn't viewed as 'important' by the Ministry, and located on the outskirts of Diagon Alley. The stone was white, and a single name was engraved in it.

Fred Weasley.

Once decorated with flowers, candy, and various joke items, this monument was now bare, with the exception of several, battered boxes of Nosebleed Nougats and a wilted red chrysanthemum. There was also a quiet, dark shape that was pressed against the monument, clearly alive, and with eyes that stared blankly into the night. The still form of George Weasley was a nearly constant presence at the quiet statue, though it was not the actual burial site of the other Weasley twin.

It was rare that someone would actually visit the monument intentionally – even Molly Weasley abandoned it eventually – but it was an inevitable passing point. Shoppers would skirt around it, giving the mourning twin a wide berth, but they couldn't help feel the accusation that George's haunted eyes shot at them: "Why not you?" And a stab of guilt would shoot through their soul before they scurried on to continue their day, letting the wild gaze of the redhead slip to the back of their mind.

To George, it was like half his soul had been ripped away. His hands, calloused from his years of work with Fred, were pressed against the cold marble of the statue, and his eyes were unblinking, unseeing. It had only been four months since the death of Fred – could it really be September already? – but, to an outsider, it looked like George had been suffering for years. His already pale skin was devoid of any color (with the exception of his freckles), and, God, his _eyes_. They were as blue as they had been in the past, but, behind the color, there was absolutely nothing. No soul. No nothing.

In a way, George had grown into the marble of the testament. Though the stone was supposed to be hard, immoveable, there was a slight indentation of where George had made his home. It had been months since he returned to the flat above Weasley's Wizarding Wheezey's, and he had absolutely no intention of ever going back there ever again. The flat still _smelled _like him for Christ's sake, and how was George supposed to deal with that? Though he could still conjure the smell up in his mind like Fred had just walked by him, George couldn't deal with an actual object smelling like his beloved twin brother.

"You know, you shouldn't be here," came a strangely familiar voice. George's vacant eyes glanced up at the tall dark woman staring down at him, and the ghost of a smirk danced across his emotionless face.

"Hello to you too, Angelina," he murmured, voice dead and hoarse from lack of use. "May I ask what the hell you're doing here?" Angelina and Fred had been somewhat of an item before his death – something that George was insanely jealous of – yet she hadn't come to his memorial at all since its erection six days after that horrid, horrid day.

She smiled slightly, rubbing her hands against her long arms to create friction against the abnormally cold air of a quickly approaching September. "Oh, I don't know, George. Maybe I wanted to come see a reminder of my dead boyfriend." At the word dead George flinched, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing himself closer against the cold granite. Angelina looked down at him with something that looked like pity, and she quickly plopped herself next to the twenty year old.

"You're not the only one who lost someone, you know," she whispered softly, extending one hand towards George's slumped shoulders. But he cringed away from her before they could make contact, and Angelina sighed. "I loved him too. We were going to get married someday, I think. We hadn't talked about it but…but I think that was what was going to happen." Her eyes were distant as she stared into a future that would never happen, tears slowly welling in their chocolate depths. "He never loved me as much as he loved you, though," she eventually said, regaining her voice. "You were all he talked about sometimes. Or, at least, you were involved with every story he told."

The shadow of a smile quirked across George's lips, bitter and cold as he thought about the times he'd had with Fred. "It's…it's like I lost half of my soul," he eventually said, voice void of all emotion. "It's not like he just…_died_. It's like _I _died. It's like he took my soul with him, and now…Now I can't find it. I'm just supposed to walk around like absolutely nothing happened, like Fred never existed. How the _hell _am I supposed to do that, Angelina? I don't know how to exist without him." He took a deep breath, eyes beginning to water slightly as he turned his gaze to Angelina. It took his breath away that the emotion in her eyes was almost as poignant as the lack of emotion in his was, and George's hand threatened to move across her cheek. But he suppressed the urge and looked away from her piercing gaze.

"We couldn't stand to be apart, you know. I mean, sure, it was fine when he went to your house, but did you ever wonder why he never spent the night? He was always the more dominant twin, yeah, but neither of us could bear to be apart at night. It scared the hell out of us, and I don't know why. It must have scared the hell out of him when…when…" George's voice cracked as he thought of the moment that he wasn't at Fred's side, the single moment that he needed to be there more than anything in the world. "Percy wasn't supposed to be there," he eventually sighed. "I was. I was supposed to be at his side, like I always was…And I was supposed to go with him. I guess in a way I did, because at that moment I could feel my soul being ripped out of my chest, but I wasn't actually _there_. I wasn't holding his hand; I didn't feel…I didn't feel the wall…" George's voice finally broke as sobs tore through his chest, gaining volume and growing more and more inhuman as they tore through the damp September air.

As he sobbed, George could feel an unfamiliar pressure snaking across his shoulder, and he instinctively leaned into it. Angelina rested her cheek on his quaking head, holding him as he sobbed. "Why Fred?" he moaned over and over, eyes squeezed shut and tears soaking Angelina's shirt. "I…I can't do this. I can't go on without him, Ang, I just _can't_. I'm not meant to. I don't see why I even try…"

"You do it because that's what Fred would have wanted you to do, George," Angelina whispered. "Do you think he'd want you to be crying? Do you think that's what he'd be doing? Do you –"

"Don't you _dare _tell me what Fred would have wanted," George suddenly hissed, scrambling away from her and backing into his familiar indentation. His eyes were feral, inhuman – this was not the person who'd just shed human tears moments before. "None of you know what he wanted. Don't you get that? None of you. You didn't know what he wanted, you never would. Because what he wanted was me. Deep down, that was all he wanted. That's all either of wanted, or needed. We could have been beggars on the street without a knut to our name and we would have been fine as long as we had each other. He didn't need you. All Fred needed was me."

Angelina stared at him, silent tears trickling down her cheeks, and the fear and horror on her face made a glimmer of remorse stab through George's soul. "Maybe he needed you more," she ultimately said, her voice calm and controlled, "but he needed me too." And without another word, the statuesque beauty stood up and stalked away from George Weasley, leaving him to cower in his little indentation, gently stroking the side and murmuring "I love you, Freddie."

And soon the dark clouds, that had been threatening rain all morning, finally released the tears that were welling up in the heavens.

_I loved you both._

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Man, I hate writing endings! Anyway, as you can tell, I'm still not over Fred's death. But with the new information that Angelina is George's wife (which I originally hated), an idea for a series of oneshots came into the picture. Who knows if I'll actually write them, but if I do, here's the first. R&R, I actually sorta like this one. 

--Rose


End file.
